


A House Does Not a Home Make

by AetherSeer



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage, Coercion, Consent Issues, Developing Relationship, Homophobia, M/M, Marriage Contracts, Miscommunication, Non-Sexual Uninformed Consent, Politics, Slow Burn, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2018-12-11 13:49:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11715657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherSeer/pseuds/AetherSeer
Summary: Sasha’s heard the whispers. Everyone has. It’s a contract year, and Washington wants him long-term.What few others know is the qualifier that Leonsis put on the table. Sasha can bargain for a longer contract if he agrees to a hockey pairing—one that will allow the Caps to sign another player for a longer term as well. And his options are limited.Sasha’s pen wavers. He crosses out a name and slides the list across the table.





	1. May 2010

**Author's Note:**

> As always, if you notice something - an error, a typo, something else that's not quite right - please let me know so I can fix it.
> 
> Many thanks to my wonderful and patient beta, AthenaVine, who deals with my constant chatter about hockey and hockey players despite not being in the fandom.

Sasha isn’t sure how he’s gotten to this point—his Nicky stretched out on the couch, head in Sasha’s lap and Sasha’s calloused hand combing through blonde curls—but he wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not even the Stanley Cup, although he’ll admit that’d be a very close second.

Nicky shifts and cracks one eye open to stare at Sasha. “You’re thinking about the Cup again, aren’t you.”

Sasha shrugs and pets Nicky’s hair again. “Just be nice to win, is all. Give team Cup to put Caps babies in. Take Cup to Russia, show off husband to country.”

Nicky snorts and turns onto his side, temporarily displacing Sasha’s hand. “Russia wasn’t very happy when you married me, Alex. I doubt even the Cup would change that.”

Once Nicky’s settled, Sasha starts a slow glide from shoulder to hip and back up again. The light from the TV reflects off his wedding ring. He thinks about the years he’s spent with Nicky, the summers apart and the time spent together off the ice at what has slowly become their home.

“I love Russia.” Nicky’s shoulders tense, but Sasha simply keeps smoothing his hand over those firm muscles as he speaks. “I love Russia, and it will always be home, but _you_ are home to me now, Nicky. I tell you many times I love you. If Russia does not see why I love you, then Russia is blind. And we take the Cup to Moscva and be husbands anyway.”

He pauses for a second. “Also, you already meet my parents. Mama make Russia sorry they not love you.”

That makes Nicky laugh, albeit softly. “Your mother is terrifying.”

Sasha agrees. “Yes. Terrifying and beautiful and very proud.” Maybe Tatyana Ovechkina hadn’t been exactly _pleased_ that her youngest son had married a man for hockey, but she had come to love Nicky in her own way.

Nicky hums. The tension in his shoulders eases. Sasha waits.

“I want to take the Cup home to Valbo, to my mother and father and brother. I want to introduce you to my friends,” Nicky says quietly. “I want them to know I love you. That our marriage began for hockey, but is more than that now.”

Nicky’s facing away from him, but Sasha can picture the quiet steadiness of green eyes. Nicky’s said _I love you_ only a handful of times in the two and a half years they’ve been married, and never where anyone but Sasha could hear. For him to want to make a public declaration—

Sasha reaches over Nicky and flips him to his back. Nicky stares up at him, startled. “Wha—”

Sasha bends down and kisses him. The angle’s awkward as all hell—Nicky half-twisted on his back, head in Sasha’s lap—but Sasha _needs_ Nicky to know how much he means to Sasha.

The kiss starts out frantic. Nicky shifts fully onto his back and cups Sasha’s face in his hands, angling his head and gentling him. Both of their eyes remain open, green staring calmly back at wild blue.

Sasha never wants to stop kissing Nicky— _his Nicky_ —but his back complains at the awkward angle and he has to sit back up. Nicky rolls up into a sitting position and swings his legs around until he’s kneeling on the couch beside Sasha.

“Alex?” he questions.

Sasha just stares at him. Nicky’s hair is mussed, wayward blonde strands sticking up in the back. His cheeks are flushed. Sasha drops his gaze to Nicky’s lips; Nicky licks them absently. Nicky’s eyes narrow thoughtfully when Sasha looks back up.

Nicky can move very quickly when he wants to, on and off the ice. Sasha’s aware of this, but he’s still surprised to end up with a lapful of Nicky, warm and heavy over his thighs. Nicky’s knees are tucked up under Sasha’s ribs, pinning Sasha against the back of the couch.

Privately, Sasha usually equates Nicky with an angel. Now, with a smirk settling on his lips and a _look_ in his eyes, Nicky’s all devil.

Sasha falls in love all over again.


	2. September 2007

Sasha’s heard the whispers. Everyone has. It’s a contract year, and Washington wants him long-term.

“Of course they want to keep you,” Tatyana Ovechkina says derisively when he calls her. “They’d be stupid to let you play for another team after the seasons you’ve had.”

What his mother  _ doesn’t  _ know is the qualifier that Leonsis put on the table. Sasha can bargain for a longer contract if he agrees to a hockey pairing—one that will allow the Caps to sign another player for a longer term as well. And his options are limited.

Sasha, even as apolitical as athletes tend to be, knows Russia is not kind to men and women attracted to their own sex. While it is not illegal to be a homosexual anymore, it is also not legal for two men to marry. Any hockey pairing Sasha makes will not be recognized in Russia.

He painstakingly lays all of this out when his parents come to visit later in the season. The pressure to finalize a contract is mounting, and Sasha’s time is limited. McPhee and Leonsis are anxious to lock him down, he knows, but he wants his parents’ advice for something so big.

“Another Russian is out of the question,” his mother states. His father simply nods in agreement. “If you want this, and you’re willing to risk your country, you cannot ask another Russian to abandon Russia.”

“You’ll need a place to go if you cannot stay in America,” Mikhail contributes. “If America does not recognize your marriage, you need to marry a man from a country that will. The laws here are not set in stone yet.”

Sasha looks at the list, whittled down to three names. He crosses off Sanya’s name; he will listen to his parents on this. He won’t make his friend suffer the wrath of Russia.

Canada and Sweden remain.

Sasha looks back at his parents, sitting across from him at his kitchen table, and then down at his list. Tatyana sits back in her chair, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. Mikhail watches his youngest son carefully.

Sasha’s pen wavers. He crosses out a name and slides the list across the table.

_ Lars Nicklas Bäckström, age 19, Valbo, Sweden _

Tatyana breathes in sharply. “You’ve made your decision, then.”

Sasha hides his trembling hands in his lap. He swallows and meets his mother’s eyes. “I want to play, Mama. I want to play with the best. And this is the only way I know how.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sweden legalized same-sex marriage in May 2009. However, registered partnerships have been nationally recognized since 1995 (in this ‘verse, athletic pairings broadly fall under that category). As of 2009, those in registered partnerships then had the option to apply to change their partnership to a marriage either via documentation or a ceremony.


	3. January 2008

Sasha’s husband-to-be is nowhere to be found on the morning of their wedding day. Neither, Sasha discovers, is Greenie.

Sanya just laughs at him, which makes Sasha think he’s in on the joke. His hands are shaking, more nervous now than Sasha can ever remember being. In an hour, Sasha will sign over the next 13 years of his life, and seal the contract with a kiss.

His first kiss with another man will be with his _husband_ , he thinks.

He fumbles his buttons again. Sanya takes pity on him and does up the rest of his shirt buttons for him. Sasha obediently slips on the suit jacket and fiddles with his cuffs. Sanya hands him a white box.

Sasha opens it.

Inside, nestled in white cotton, are two silver cufflinks. Sasha turns one over in his hand, noting the three crowns etched into the metal. “The Tre Kroner of Sweden, Sanya?”

“They’re from your parents, actually. Your hubby gets Russia on his wedding day, and you have Sweden.”

Sasha’s throat goes tight. He slips the cufflinks into place and rolls his shoulders. His suit feels tight across the shoulders despite it being midseason.

Sanya hands him a glass; Sasha downs it. The vodka is crisp, sliding down his throat easily. “I shouldn’t be this nervous,” he says. “It’s just _Nicky_.”

Lars Nicklas Bäckström. Backy. Nicky. The quiet voice of reason in a crowded locker room even as a rookie. A young center—younger than Sasha, even—with hockey sense that spooks even the veterans. Someone Sasha thinks he could play beside for years, given the chance. A man he _hopes_ he can build a marriage, a life, a _home_ with.

Sanya claps a hand on his shoulder. “Just Nicky,” he mocks. “Better not let _him_ hear you say that. I’m glad _I’m_ not marrying you. You’d have to get used to being the lesser Alexander.”

Sasha has a feeling he’s going to regret ever admitting that Sanya was on his shortlist of marriage candidates.

 

The door opens and Misha sticks his head in. “Everything’s ready for you two, whenever you decide to stop hiding.”

Sometimes Sasha hates his brother. But— “Nicky?”

Misha raises an eyebrow. “Bäckström’s waiting with everyone else, Sasha. Your Canadian teammate’s there, too.”

Greenie. Of course Nicky would choose Greenie as his best man. It’s not like he had much time to make other arrangements. His own parents barely made it over in time.

Sasha maybe feels a bit guilty about that.

Sanya shoves him into the hallway, though, and the guilt falls away only to be replaced by sheer terror. He twists around. “Am I making a mistake?”

Sanya’s face is serious. “Maybe. But sometimes what you think is a mistake can turn out in unexpected ways.”

That’s … somewhat comforting.

Misha’s words of wisdom are much simpler. “You’ve already signed one contract locking down your hockey. This? This is just locking away the next 13 years of your life.”

Sasha feels justified in elbowing him in the gut. Misha lets out a pained grunt, but can’t retaliate before the three of them enter the conference room where the ceremony is taking place.

Sasha is vaguely aware of the two sets of parents in the room, but his attention is focused on a clearly uncomfortable Nicky fidgeting at the other end of the room. Greenie’s murmuring to him, but Sasha can’t make it out from here.

Green eyes snap to fixate on Sasha, and Sasha’s falling.

He steps forward and stands across from Nicky on autopilot. He’s aware of the judge reading out the marriage ceremony, and manages to fumble through the English responses well enough, but his entire self is focused on Nicky. Nicky’s English is much more fluid than Sasha’s, and his eyes never leave Sasha’s face.

Sasha feels pinned in place beneath that implacable gaze. He nearly drops the ring when Sanya hands it over, and tries to reach for Nicky’s right hand. Nicky raises an eyebrow and places his left hand in Sasha’s palm.

Right. In Sweden, like in America, wedding rings are worn on the left hand. Sasha slides the gold band onto Nicky’s finger, lifting his head in time to watch Nicky’s expression go from blank to curious to some unknown feeling before blanking again.

Sasha offers his right hand when it comes time for Nicky to give him his ring. The gold is smooth against his skin, resting innocently at the base of his finger. An innocuous little thing representing both what Sasha is sacrificing and hoping to gain.

The officiant clears her throat. Both Nicky and Sasha look at her. “You may now kiss your husband,” she says.

Sasha just stands there for a moment. He steps forward; Nicky steps toward him. Nicky tilts his head and Sasha leans down to brush their lips together. Both their lips are chapped, and they connect a little weirdly. And then it’s over, and Leonsis is stepping up to congratulate them.

Sasha glances toward his parents. His mother’s expression is nearly as blank as Nicky’s, but his father merely looks resigned. Neither of them look the way Sasha had hoped they’d look at his wedding someday.

But then again, this isn’t exactly the kind of wedding he’d imagined, either.

 

There’s no party after Sasha signs his name. Professional athletic pairings, while nationally recognized as holding the same legal weight as a marriage, are still not _real_ marriages to most people. And Sasha doesn’t know Nicky’s views, despite the clause in Nicky’s ELC indicating his amenability.

Their parents take Sasha and Nicky out to dinner, at a restaurant where Sasha has yet to be recognized in the two years he’s been going. The meal is quiet, rarely broken by conversation. Nicky’s parents don’t speak Russian, and Tatyana and Mikhail barely speak more than a few stilted words in English.

Misha carries on a quiet conversation with Nicky’s father at one end of the table. Sasha can honestly say he spends most of the meal watching Nicky. He ignores the pointed looks from his mother. He’s a married man now; he’s allowed to stare at his husband.

 

Misha pulls Sasha aside after dinner and presses a plastic hotel key into his hand. “I booked you a hotel room, since Mama and Papa are staying with me at your house. Nicky’s parents know, too. I also packed you a bag; it’s in your car.”

Sasha feels heat creep up the back of his neck. He doesn’t want to think about Nicky’s parents _knowing_ he’s taking their son to bed.

Misha laughs at him and squeezes his shoulder. “You know how things work, yes? I don’t need to teach yo—ack!”

Sasha doesn’t feel bad about shoving his annoying older brother off the sidewalk.

 

Sasha sees Misha and his parents into a cab, and then waits as Nicky bids his parents goodbye. He takes the time to look Nicky over again, this time considering him as a lover. It’s not as easy as he’d thought it would be.

Sasha’s never taken a man to bed. He’s never thought about the breadth of a man’s shoulders, or the strength of his thighs. He’s never looked twice at a man’s lips or the jut of his hip. And despite practically growing up in locker rooms, Sasha’s never looked at another man’s dick beyond a passing glance.

He supposes that will change now, given he’s gone and gotten himself married to a man.

 

Nicky’s quiet on the ride to the hotel. He doesn’t speak on the elevator ride to their floor, either. He leans against the wall of the elevator, duffle slung over one shoulder, and watches Sasha fidget. Sasha flips the key card around his fingers, jumping when the doors open on their floor.

Nicky slips past him into the room when Sasha finally gets the door open. Sasha trails after him, dumping his bag on the couch and looking around.

It’s not the honeymoon suite. There aren’t any rose petals that he can see. Nicky reappears in the doorway to the bedroom, tie already undone. He’s holding a bottle in one hand, two fluted glasses in the other.

“There’s champagne,” he offers.

Sasha crosses the room and takes one of the offered glasses. He sips it slowly; watches as Nicky downs an entire glass, throat working, and pours himself another. This one he drinks more slowly, eyes fixed on Sasha.

“Have you … have you done this before?” Sasha asks cautiously.

“Gotten married? No,” Nicky snorts. He raises an eyebrow. “I’ve had sex with men, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Sasha takes another sip of champagne. Nicky’s eyes narrow. “You haven’t.”

“Had sex, yes,” Sasha snaps. He’s _not_ a virgin. “Just not with man. Not safe in Russia, to sleep with men.”

Nicky sets down his champagne glass—empty, Sasha notes—and shrugs off his suit jacket. Deft fingers make quick work of his shirt buttons and he lets it fall off his shoulders. Sasha stares.

Nicky strips efficiently, a trait most hockey players share. Before long, he’s down to his shorts, socks and undershirt. But when Nicky doesn’t make a move toward Sasha, and instead starts pulling toothpaste and a toothbrush out of his bag, Sasha’s surprised.

“What you doing?”

“Getting ready for bed. You should, too. Tomorrow’s going to be … annoying.”

_What?_

Sasha apparently said that aloud, because Nicky straightens up and faces him squarely. Sasha has six centimeters and 10 kilograms on him, but Nicky makes him feel smaller. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed, and I’m turning my phone off until a reasonable hour in the morning, when I will have to deal with every single person I know messaging or calling or otherwise telling me their unwanted and unneeded opinions.”

Nicky shuts the bathroom door behind him, leaving Sasha holding a half-empty glass of champagne and feeling like he’s just been slapped. The phone comment is a good suggestion, though, and Sasha digs his own out of his pocket. He turns it off and sets it on the dresser.

After a moment, he unfastens his cufflinks and set them next to his phone.

 

Sasha’s digging through his bag for appropriate sleep clothes—it looks like his husband won’t be amenable to Sasha’s preference to sleep naked—when he hears the bathroom door open. Nicky doesn’t say anything. Sasha brushes his teeth in silence, and pads back into the bedroom in bare feet. Nicky’s an indistinct lump on the far side of the bed. Sasha lifts the covers and slides in, his back to his husband.

He stares at the wall, listening to Nicky breathing behind him. Sasha’s not sure when he falls asleep, just that he feels unbearably lonely as he does.


	4. February 2008

The seconds are ticking down, and the Caps are still down by a goal. The puck flies back to Greenie, who flicks it up the center to Nicky. The Thrashers’ defensemen corral Nicky, but the puck’s already on its way to Sasha’s stick.

There’s no one between him and the goalie. The Thrashers have realized their mistake and close in, but Sasha’s already seen his shot. He takes it.

It hits the netting, just out of Lehtonen’s reach, and the goal horn sounds. Sasha kisses his glove and raises his hands in the air before his teammates swarm him for celebratory hugs. The Caps are back in the game.

Overtime is a mess. The Caps shoot and drive to the net, but can’t get a goal, and the game goes to a shootout. Which they can’t pull out.

Sasha takes questions from the press, showers, and then drives with Nicky back to his house—which is now _their_ house, but still doesn’t quite feel like home.

 

It had taken less than a week for Nicky to move into Sasha’s house. His clothes hang in Sasha’s closet; his hair products have their own place in the shower; the cupboards and fridge have Nicky’s preferred brands; and Nicky sleeps in the same bed as Sasha, but it doesn’t feel like a _marriage_.

Sasha’s lonelier than he’s ever been before.

Nicky barely speaks to him off the ice, and ducks away from Sasha’s exuberance. He spends more time at Greenie’s place than at Sasha’s, returning home some days only to shower and sleep. They play beautiful hockey together—Sasha’s scoring and racking up points at a higher rate than he ever has—but Nicky barely tolerates his presence away from the arena.

Sasha can’t take 13 years of this.


	5. March 2008

The Penguins come to town on the 9th, and Sasha’s never been so glad to see Zhenya’s awkward face in his entire life. Despite his best efforts, the Caps lose.

Sasha doesn’t even bother waiting for Nicky at this point; Nicky will find his own way home. He meets Zhenya outside the visitors’ locker room, and they walk in silence to Sasha’s car.

“You have exception tonight?” Sasha asks.

Zhenya nods. “You sounded like you needed to talk, so I got Sid to help me get permission.”

 _Fuck_. “Crosby knows?”

Zhenya has the gall to look offended. “He knows we’re hanging out tonight. He doesn’t know your pairing is failing, or that you’re so lonely you got drunk and cried to me over the phone for an hour last week.”

Sasha mentally winces. That hadn’t been his finest moment. “Oh.”

Zhenya slings his overnight bag into the backseat. “Do you want to get drunk tonight, or do you want to watch sappy films and eat ice cream while we talk about your failing marriage like in the romantic comedies you pretend you don’t watch?”

“Please, like you don’t watch them right there with me.”

Zhenya rolls his eyes.

And, well, if Sasha’s honest ...“Both, probably.”

Zhenya’s face is sad-looking at the best of times, but Sasha cannot _stand_ being pitied. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not—I don’t—”

They don’t speak for the rest of the drive home, where Sasha has plenty of alcohol and ice cream. He knows himself; he did the grocery shopping in advance.

Nicky’s car is in the garage, but Sasha’s pretty sure Nicky himself is at Greenie’s. As usual. Zhenya follows Sasha into the house, and disappears upstairs to put his bag in the guest room he usually stays in while Sasha sets out the vodka and fills the glasses.

Sasha hears Zhenya clomping down the stairs, but he’s still startled when Zhenya speaks. “You sleep together? From everything you said, I didn’t expect that.”

Sasha’s too tired to be mad about Zhenya snooping. “We _are_ married, fuckwit. We share a bed, but we don’t—there’s—nothing _happens_.” No matter how much Sasha may _want_ something to happen.

Zhenya … Zhenya definitely picks up on Sasha’s feelings, but he’s smart enough not to say anything. It’s still frowned upon in Russia, after all, to want such things from another man. Even if Sasha is married to said man.

Zhenya picks up the bottle of vodka and a glass, downing the shot smoothly before refilling his glass. “What terrible movies are we watching while you cry?”

Sasha shoves him—not too hard, because that _is_ good vodka and it’d be a waste if Zhenya drops it—and leads the way to his entertainment room.  Zhenya sprawls over half the couch, lanky form taking up more space than it theoretically should be able to. Sasha thunks his ankles into Zhenya’s lap, just for the pained sound that Zhenya lets out when one heel makes contact with a hockey bruise.

Sasha flips through the channels and lands on HGTV. It’ll do for background noise and something to focus on while he sorts out what to tell Zhenya.

Zhenya beats him to the punch. “You live together, but I don’t see Nicky in your house.”

“That’s because he’s never _here,_ ” Sasha says. “We wake up, eat breakfast, go to practice, come home and eat lunch and nap, go to games, but we don’t talk. ‘Pass the salt,’ or ‘How do you want your eggs today?’ or ‘Turn down the radio,’ is all he ever says. After games, he doesn’t come home with me.”

Sasha sinks down further against the couch cushions and drains his glass. He stares at the drops of vodka clinging to the sides. “This isn’t what I wanted. I don’t know if he hates me, but he doesn’t _want_ me.”

Zhenya drums his fingers against Sasha’s ankle. “Have you tried just talking to him? Even if he doesn’t want to talk to you, you can do all the talking. Like you usually do.”

Sasha holds out his hand for the vodka. Zhenya obliges and hands over the bottle. Not, Sasha notes, before topping up his own glass.

“You think I haven’t tried? He just stares at me like I’m speaking Chinese and doesn’t says anything back.”

Zhenya doesn’t look at Sasha when he asks his next question. The words tumble out of his mouth slowly, almost like he’s speaking his terrible English. “Have you told him you want this to be a real marriage? Like what your parents have? That you think you could fall in love with him given the chance?”

Sasha stares at his friend, who still won’t look at him. That kind of question could get them _killed or arrested_ in Russia—but they aren’t in Russia. That Zhenya had even voiced it—

“Am I that obvious?” he asks quietly.

Zhenya’s quiet for a long moment. “You forget how well we know one another,” he says. “I’ve met your parents; I know how much you love them, and how much you want that kind of love. And I know how deeply you feel, Sasha, no matter how you hide it with smiles and jokes and flashy stunts. So, yes, to me you’re obvious. To anyone else—I don’t think so.”

Sasha pulls his feet out of Zhenya’s lap and sits up straight. “But how do I tell Nicky I—”

“Find him attractive? Want to bone him? Want to hold his hand and whisper sweet nothings into his—ack!”

Zhenya goes tumbling off the sofa courtesy of a well-aimed throw pillow to the face. He pops back into Sasha’s sight, still laughing. Sasha sniffs and pours himself another drink. “I don’t know why we’re friends. It’s not for your brains or your looks.”

Zhenya climbs back onto the sofa and takes back the bottle. “My wonderful personality, of course. And how else would you get your League gossip?”

That’s fair. Zhenya somehow gets all of the NHL gossip, and Sasha’s team is sadly lacking in drama at the moment. Sasha settles back against the couch and lets Zhenya chatter about the chaos happening in the Detroit and Chicago locker rooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there was actual drama going on in an NHL club in early 2008, please let me know. I’m not aware of any, however, so I just said Detroit and Chicago.


	6. April 2008

Sasha still hasn’t talked to Nicky. Zhenya texts him for updates every few days; Sasha ignores him.

His situation with Nicky hasn’t improved any, but it hasn’t gotten worse, either. Nicky might not be the husband Sasha was looking for, but he’s not a terrible roommate. He’s just not interested in spending any more time than he absolutely has to with Sasha.

The Caps are out of the playoffs, and Sasha’s licking his wounds like the rest of the team. Nicky’s gone more often than not. They haven’t discussed summer plans—Sasha doesn’t actually know if he’ll even be allowed back into Russia, let alone if Nicky would even want to come.

It catches him off guard, then, when Nicky comes home after an evening run and joins him in the entertainment room. Sasha keeps stealing glances as Nicky settles against the couch, flicking idly between the channels.

“Is everything … okay?” Sasha asks.

Nicky nods once, but doesn’t say anything. Sasha leans back, careful to keep his legs on his side of the couch, and watches Nicky. Nicky doesn’t look at Sasha, carefully focused on the movie on TV. “Why did you choose me?”

Sasha was not expecting _that_ to be Nicky’s question. In retrospect, he probably should have been. “You best option, for me. I see your hockey, I like. I see you, think we can be friends, and maybe good husbands.”

“Husbands? You think this is a real marriage?”

Nicky sounds almost angrily incredulous. And to be fair, the last three months have been some of the worst months of Sasha’s life. But Sasha isn’t the only one to blame here.

“It could be if you _give me chance!_ ” Sasha throws back.

Nicky finally looks at Sasha then, eyes wide like he didn’t expect Sasha to yell. “Give you a—you picked me out of a lineup! You looked at a piece of paper and said ‘That one. I want that one,’ and I _didn’t have a choice_.”

“You have choice when you sign ELC,” Sasha refutes. “We _all_ have choice to say ‘no’ to hockey pairing.” He certainly hadn’t included that clause in his first contract. His mama would’ve had his head if he’d gotten married off as a teenager.

Nicky slowly shakes his head. “I didn’t—I didn’t think it would be this soon. And Leonsis made it very clear—”

_What?_

“What you mean, Leonsis make clear?”

Nicky draws his legs up and speaks quietly enough Sasha has to lean in to hear him. “You’re a big deal, Alex. If Washington wasn’t able to lock you down—it’s a big loss for the organization. And one way to lock you down was with a hockey pairing. So it was made very clear to us—all of us that made it on your shortlist—that if we wanted to stay up, or stay with the team, we would say yes.”

That … makes no sense. “But you sign contract before Leonsis even offer pairing as option.”

Nicky snorts. “Alex, you were the type of player a team wants to _keep_ before I was even drafted. There’s a reason I stayed in Sweden as long as I did. But …” he shrugs. “But I wanted to _play._ And I wanted that more than I was scared of a forced pairing.”

Sasha’s stomach sinks with the realization. That Nicky had been essentially blackmailed into marrying him, to keep him with Washington—Sasha wants to vomit.

It does, however, explain much of the past months.

Across from him, Nicky’s curled up against the arm of the couch. He looks impossibly young, even though he’s only two years younger than Sasha. His eyes never leave Sasha’s face. Oddly, it reminds Sasha of their wedding day. “You didn’t know. Leonsis said I should never tell you.”

Sasha swears, low and vicious. “Didn’t know. Didn’t _ask_. Thought if you sign ELC and say yes, you  поддающийся.” He doesn’t know the English word; doesn’t care. Nicky seems to understand the sentiment well enough without it.

 

They go to bed, heeding the routine they’ve fallen into. Nicky takes less time in the bathroom than Sasha, and falls asleep faster, so he goes first while Sasha changes. This time, however, Nicky’s awake and sitting on the edge of the bed when Sasha finishes brushing his teeth.

He looks nervous, which is an emotion Sasha’s never seen from him before. He lifts his chin. “You said you thought we could be friends—good husbands. I … I haven’t been a friend to you.”

Sasha opens his mouth, and shuts it before any words escape. It’s true; Nicky’s been cold and distant and unfriendly, but if Sasha had been under the same pressures … he sees _why_ Nicky had done it. It doesn’t make it hurt any less, though, and it doesn’t erase the loneliness that’s defined their marriage so far.

“We talk in morning. Too …” _Upset. Hurt. Angry._ The words that come to mind both do and don’t fit the situation at hand. Sasha makes an all-encompassing gesture instead, and hopes Nicky understands.

 

The morning comes too early for Sasha’s liking. One of them had forgotten to close the curtains the night before. Sasha would like to say it’s Nicky’s fault the sun is shining on his face, but in all likelihood it was him. Either way, Sasha’s unwillingly awake.

He turns onto his back and stares at the ceiling. Beside him, Nicky’s still dead to the world. Sasha slips out from under the sheet and pads over to the window, pulling the curtain shut. The room dims, but there’s enough light for Sasha to dig out a clean outfit and make his way to the bathroom without tripping over discarded clothing.

The hot water is a welcome distraction from last night’s discussion, and Sasha scrubs down without much fanfare. Nicky hasn’t stirred when Sasha pads back through the bedroom, dropping his sleep clothes back on the bed, and the towel in the hamper.

Sasha starts the kettle—for his tea and Nicky’s coffee—and sits at the table to scroll through his phone. Montreal’s currently leading the series against Boston, and Pittsburgh’s killing Ottawa. Sasha doesn’t feel bad about texting Zhenya during what’s likely morning skate; if Zhenya’s smart, he’ll have turned off his phone.

      **To Zhenya:** We talked. Leonsis is a manipulative bastard, and my marriage is a lie.

There. Sasha stares at the sent message for a while. He shakes his head and starts grinding coffee beans for Nicky’s French press. He’s watched Nicky do it every morning for three months; it can’t be that hard. He’s finished the grinding when the kettle starts whistling. Sasha winces at its shrill shriek.

The water gets poured into the press and his own teapot. The teapot gets set aside to steep. Sasha digs out a spoon to stir the coffee grounds into the hot water.

Sasha’s just poured himself a mug of tea and added his jam when Nicky practically sleepwalks into the kitchen. His hair’s flat on one side, and sticking up hilariously in the back. He makes a surprised noise when he finds his mug of coffee already made up for him on the counter, and blinks at Sasha. “You made me coffee?”

Sasha shrugs. If they’re going to talk about their marriage, it’s best to start off on a good foot. “I hope I do right.”

Nicky takes a sip … and visibly steels himself to drink the rest. _Fuck._ Clearly he’s messed up somewhere.

Nicky looks closer at the press, and then sees the kettle. “Did you let the water cool?” he asks.

Sasha had not, in fact, let the water cool. Nicky takes another sip. He grimaces a little. “If you don’t let the water cool a little after boiling, it burns the coffee.”

“Oh.” So much for starting out on the right foot.

His phone buzzes.

      **From Zhenya:** ((((((((

Nicky glances at Sasha’s phone over his coffee, which he’s still sipping at. “Is Zhenya,” Sasha says. “Don’t have to drink terrible coffee.”

“Who’s Zhenya?”

His pronunciation isn’t the worst Sasha’s ever heard, but neither is it good. “Zhenya Malkin?” Sasha tries. “Awkward Penguin? Terrible hockey, plays with worst center in league.”

Nicky snorts inelegantly before he dumps his coffee down the sink. “I don’t think Malkin’s the awkward one on that team.”

He pours himself a mug of Sasha’s tea before joining Sasha at the table. The morning sun highlights the gold of his hair; the brilliant green of his eyes. Sasha blinks.

Nicky takes a sip of tea and hums softly. His eyes slide half-shut. Sasha watches him; stirs his tea to keep the jam from settling at the bottom.

      **From Zhenya:** Did you tell him how you feel?

      **From Zhenya:** It’s important to have everything on the table when discussing marriage.

Nicky cuts a glance at Sasha’s buzzing phone, but doesn’t say anything in favor of draining his mug. “We should talk about last night.”

Sasha’s stomach sinks. “Don’t need,” he says. He doesn’t look at Nicky. “Marriage is lie. We get divorce, keep quiet. Is breach of contract, but you not willing, so not good contract.”

Nicky’s quiet for a moment. Sasha hears the clink of his mug when he sets it down. “You want it, though. A _real_ marriage. That’s why you said yes.”

 _Yes_. Sasha nods. He glances up at Nicky, who’s staring at him again. “I want—” he tries, “When Leonsis say I can pick teammate, I think about for long time. Ask Mama, Papa if good idea. They don’t agree, but respect my decision. I want to play NHL hockey. I think this is way to have both—hockey and marry person who knows life of hockey player.”

“But—you’ve never been with a man, and you wanted to marry one?”

Sasha swallows. He chooses his words carefully, haltingly. “In Russia, is not safe to sleep with men. Maybe I’m okay because famous hockey player. Maybe not. Risk, you know? Doesn’t mean I don’t _think_ about sleep with men. Just not do.”

“Oh.”

Sasha doesn’t know what to say next. Neither, it seems, does Nicky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consent Issues: Sasha goes into this arrangement without full knowledge of the pressure Nicky is under. Nicky, for his part, is given the option of saying "yes" to Sasha's decision, or risks being sent down to the AHL for an undetermined amount of time, having his playing time cut, and/or being traded.


	7. May 2008

Their routine doesn’t change much over the next few weeks. The Penguins decimate the Rangers. Sasha chirps Zhenya over text, and Zhenya plays hockey. Nicky still spends his days with Greenie. Sasha goes out with Sanya before Sanya leaves for Russia; goes on runs and works out, and swims in the backyard pond. At night, he still crawls into bed beside Nicky, but the room doesn’t seem so unwelcoming anymore.

In the evenings, they now talk to each other over dinner. Sasha learns that Nicky loves his parents, and his hometown; that he’s afraid of big dogs, but loves children and puppies. In return, Sasha tells stories about growing up in Moscow, about his mother’s legacy and his father’s quiet pride. He’s not quite ready to talk about Sergei, and Nicky doesn’t push.

Sasha learns to make Nicky’s coffee properly, and Nicky surprises Sasha with _pelmeni_ after a day spent at the children’s hospital. Sasha spends the better part of an afternoon looking up traditional Swedish recipes, only to realize that almost all of them are above his current culinary abilities. So he swallows his pride and calls Michael Nylander for help.

The look on Nicky’s face when Sasha sets a plate of misshapen meatballs on the table, though,  is worth the hours spent with Camilla in the Nylanders’ kitchen with a gaggle of children laughing at his early attempts. They don’t taste quite right—not the same as Camilla’s—but Sasha’s still proud of them.

Sasha, in the end, is the one to initiate the first of many kisses hello and goodbye. He absently busses Nicky on the cheek as he passes through the kitchen after a workout, something he’s seen his parents do a thousand times. It’s not until he’s reached the bottom of the stairs that he realizes what he’s done.

He tries not to overthink it when Nicky calmly returns the favor later that week. Sasha’s fairly sure that his ears still turn pink, though, as heat floods his cheeks. Nicky, for his part, seems content to brush kisses on Sasha’s cheeks in passing.

 

Sasha gets the call to play for Russia, and he doesn’t hesitate to answer. He plays, and scores, and Russia _fucking decimates_ Switzerland and Finland. Sasha’s representing his country, playing with NHL teammates and opponents, and KHL players he only now hears talk about, and it’s _good_.

Sasha shouts his joy to the roof as his teammates storm the ice after the buzzer sounds. Sasha and Sanya go out with the team that night and get wonderfully, gloriously drunk. He wakes up to skin-warmed metal bumping against his sternum and an unamused Swede standing over him, arms crossed over his chest. _Fuck._

Sasha goes home to Washington, a gold medal around his neck and feeling lighter than he has in months. Sweden—Nicky—takes home empty platitudes and the cold burn of fourth place. Sasha doesn’t gloat—he puts his medal away in its box, out of sight—but neither will he tiptoe around the subject when it’s brought up.

 

Sasha watches Crosby carefully avoid touching the Prince of Wales trophy, and his heart only hurts a little that it’s Zhenya playing in the finals.

 

Nicky joins Sasha when Detroit and Pittsburgh take the ice for the first game. He settles into the corner of the couch, eyes tracking the puck on screen just as intently as Sasha remembers from the ice. Sasha pays more attention to Nicky than the painful shitshow of the game.

The lights in the entertainment room are dimmed, and Nicky’s pale enough to get washed out from the television screen, but Sasha’s content to watch him mutter under his breath as Samuelsson scores in the second to put Detroit up 1-0. Nicky glances at Sasha when Zhenya heads to the box for tripping, a smile hidden in the quirk of his lips. Sasha gives him a wide smile. “Zhenya lose temper. Too hot-head.”

Detroit scores early in the third, and then adds two more goals late to end the game with a shutout. Sasha doesn’t expect a message from Zhenya after that humiliation, and isn’t surprised when he doesn’t get one. He puts his dishes in the dishwasher, and his empty Coke can in the recycling, and holds back a yelp when Nicky appears in the kitchen doorway.

Nicky watches Sasha carefully as Sasha tries to calm his heartbeat. “You need bell, like cat. Sneak on soft feet,” Sasha scolds.

Nicky laughs softly. His hair is soft, free of the product he usually douses it in. The stress of his rookie season has faded, and his skin glows with the beginning of a summer tan. He looks—Sasha swallows and turns to pour himself a glass of cold water.


	8. June 2008 - Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m aware Ovechkin went to Russia in summer of 2008. I also know he met with Putin to be congratulated for winning Worlds, was in a Russian music video that summer, and defended his academic thesis all while in Russia (busy guy), but we’re pretending that didn’t happen for continuity’s sake. (Let’s assume he could defend his thesis over video, because he’s a smart cookie and I don’t want even my version of Sasha to lose out on his degree.)
> 
> In other words, this is the point where we start larger deviations from canon.

Zhenya doesn’t lift the Cup that summer, and Sasha doesn’t go home to Russia. Nicky leaves for Sweden at the beginning of the month; he doesn’t ask Sasha to go with him. Sasha trains and runs and ignores the silence of his friends in Russia.

The house—their house—is quieter. Not that Nicky is loud, but Sasha finds himself turning to show Nicky a new video or tweet, only to meet empty space. It’s strange how things have changed after April’s realization. And yet, Sasha still _wants_.

He wants to know if Nicky’s hair is as soft as it looks. Wants to count the freckles that come out in the sun. Wants to know the strength of Nicky’s hands, and the press of his lips. He wants the warmth of Nicky’s body against his own; to wake up wrapped in his arms with nothing separating them. Sasha _wants_ everything—and it scares him.

 

Sasha doesn’t have much time to marvel at the quiet, since his parents fly in for the weeks before the NHL awards. His mama takes one look at him once out of the public view and shakes her head. “You’d think marriage would have made you learn to cook,” she says.

Sasha doesn’t have much of an answer for her; neither he nor Nicky spend more time in the kitchen than necessary, learning to make Swedish meatballs notwithstanding. It’s easier by far to stock soups and pasta and chicken, and order takeaway when they can’t stand their own cooking anymore.

“No matter what I make, it doesn’t match up to your cooking,” Sasha says, blatantly laying on the charm. His mother laughs in his face and shoos him out of the kitchen.

“Go talk to your father,” she orders. “Tell him about this … this husband of yours.”

The hesitation is barely there, but Sasha still catches it. He knows it has to be hard for them. They’re shielded by their own accomplishments, and that he doesn’t live and play in Russia most of the year, but neither can the public be kind about their “failure” to raise a proper Russian son.

Mikhail has claimed his favorite seat in Sasha’s entertainment room, and Sasha sinks down onto the couch beside him. There’s a baseball game on, now, and they watch quietly for a time. “You played very well this year,” Mikhail finally says. “Nicklas complements your hockey.”

“He’s the best center I could ask for,” Sasha answers honestly.

“Are you happy with him?”

Sasha’s quiet. How can he explain the cold months at the beginning of their marriage to his parents, who cautioned him against such a move? “We—We’re working on it. There were misunderstandings—” _not his fault, not my fault_ “—and we didn’t know how to talk about it for a while. But we talked, and it’s better now.”

His papa doesn’t say anything for a while, then, “You’d better wait until your mother’s in the room to explain just what kind of misunderstandings. No need to tell the same story twice.”

 

To say Sasha’s parents are furious with Leonsis after Sasha tells them Nicky’s side of things is a rather severe understatement. They’re not happy with Sasha, either, but that’s mostly because he and Nicky are bad at communicating off the ice and Sasha’s the older of the two, “so you should’ve known better than to let this fester.”

      **To Nicky:** My parents know. They’re mad at Leonsis. Not mad at you. Little mad at me.

      **To Nicky:** You come to awards?

 _Come home?_ he wants to ask, but knows that’s too much.

 

Nicky sends Sasha a flight itinerary three days before the NHL awards.

      **From Nicky:** It wouldn’t be right not to be there to support my husband when he sweeps the awards.

      **To Nicky:** You win Calder this year.

      **From Nicky:** Maybe.

Sasha thinks of Nicky’s competition and wonders if Nicky knows something Sasha doesn’t.

 

Sasha picks Nicky up at the airport, uncaring of the stares he gets with his loud, unabashed greeting and outstretched arms. Nicky’s startled panic when Sasha plants smacking kisses to both his cheeks is worth the resulting “evil eye” Sasha gets in return. Nicky lets Sasha take his bags and settle him into the car, and gives noncommittal responses on the drive home.

Sasha’s parents are nowhere to be seen when they pull up to the house, and one of the cars is gone. Nicky flicks a quick glance between Sasha and the empty parking spot, but doesn’t comment on it. They’ll be back.

“I still can’t believe you made your own fashion line,” Nicky muses. Sasha side-eyes him. “Your fashion is _awful_. Who’d want to dress like you?”

Sasha squawks. “My style is amazing! Many people like my clothes, go _‘Ovi, I want shirt,’ ‘Can you sign shirt with face on it?’ ‘Russians are best-dressed players_.’”

Nicky laughs at him, and doesn’t stop laughing at him even as they carry Nicky’s bags up to their room and unpack. Sasha doesn’t mind Nicky’s laughter, not when it means Nicky’s been paying attention to Sasha even from Sweden. Nicky’s suitcases are emptied and put away when Sasha finally asks, “What was Sweden like?”

Nicky pops his head out of the bathroom, where he’d been rearranging the cabinet again. He comes to stand in the doorway and fixes that implacable gaze on Sasha. “It was … hard. Different,” he says. “My parents were happy to see me, but less so with—”

He lets the sentence hang, unfinished, and Sasha winces. He can imagine well enough.

Nicky shrugs and leans against the doorway. His stance is deceptively casual; Sasha can see the tension in the way Nicky crosses his arms over his chest. “They don’t understand. I tried to explain, but … I couldn’t find the right words.”

“They think we bad match?”

“Yes. No. In a way.” Nicky’s breath leaves him in a _whoosh_ as he swipes a hand through his hair. “They know you held the power in our marriage agreement—that I was under pressure to sign. I told them you didn’t know about that. I don’t know if they believed me, or if they think I’m covering something up.”

Sasha swallows. “They don’t like me—our marriage.”

Nicky’s eyes flick up to meet Sasha’s. An emotion tugs at the corner of Nicky’s mouth—Sasha doesn’t know what it is but he burns to find out. Nicky nods. “No, they don’t. But it’s our marriage to figure out.”

Sasha can’t stop himself from smiling. He probably looks like a loon. Nicky gives him a weird look. “What’s that look for?”

“Is first time you call our relationship ‘marriage,’” Sasha explains.

Nicky huffs a small laugh. He looks thoughtful. “I thought I’d—I guess it is.”

Now it’s Sasha’s turn to laugh. He stands up and crosses the room in quick strides. He gently, _gently_ , takes Nicky’s left hand in his own, thumb rubbing over the metal band at the base of Nicky’s finger. “I did not ask, before. I sign contract; _you_ sign contract, but I did not ask.” Nicky stares at Sasha, lips parted in surprise. Sasha carefully doesn’t tighten his grip; Nicky can pull away easily if he wants. “Nicky— _Nicklas_ —will you go on date with me?”

The next moment feels like an eternity. Sasha barely breathes. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears. He keeps his eyes on Nicky’s face; sees the moment when Nicky makes his decision. “We’re already married,” Nicky says, and Sasha’s heart drops. “But,” he continues, “we can try to make this … whatever we are …” he gestures expansively with the hand Sasha’s not holding “real. I promise to try.”

It’s more than Sasha had thought he’d get. Sasha’s worked hard for everything he has; this is no different.

 

The awards are bright, flashy, and packed with photographers. Sasha smiles for the cameras and answers every question about his potential wins with confidence. It’s what the press expects, and he isn’t, in fact, lying. He can feel it—he’s going to win tonight. That doesn’t mean he’s not happy he has the support of his family actually with him tonight, though. Sasha’s brought his parents, and Nicky, of course, and they find their seats close to the front of the room. Sasha doesn’t mind; he’ll be taking at least two trips up to the stage.

The League’s idea of a highlight video comes complete with a narration that has Nicklas snickering in his seat next to Sasha. Sasha has to forcibly keep himself still, nervous energy coursing through his veins. When Martin St. Louis announces his name, Sasha reminds himself to breathe as he stands and approaches the stage.

His nerves get the better of him.

“Hi everybody. First off, I want to congrats Jerome and Evgeni—great year, guys.” He briefly makes eye contact with Zhenya, who doesn’t look crushed, but is visibly disappointed. And he should be—he played the best hockey of his life this year, helping his team to the finals.

“Thank all my teammates, all the Capitals organization”—even Leonsis, who had given him Nicky, but in the worst way—”big thanks are in order … general manager” he breaks off and tugs at his collar. Is it just hotter onstage than in the seats?

Sasha apologizes to the crowd, admitting his nerves, and gets a few laughs and applause. He waves to the cameras as he thanks the fans who are undoubtedly watching from their homes; that gets more applause from the people in attendance. Then comes the part he struggled with in practice.

“I want to say thanks all my family—my mom, my dad, my brother, I really love them. My friends. Konstantin. My personal coach, Dmitry. My husband, Nicky. Without your support, guys, I never stay here and then never be in NHL.”

He gets an approving nod from his mother, and smiles from his dad, when he looks over. Nicky, when he catches Sasha’s eye, is as calm as ever, but Sasha notices the bright gleam of his wedding ring where his hand sits in full view on his knee.

“You know it’s, it’s big award because the players pick who’s the best player in NHL. And it means a lot. I’m very happy. Thank you very much.”

It’s a relief to sit back down, knock shoulders with Nicky. Of course, Sasha has to go on stage again to collect the Rocket Richard and the Art Ross, but those are easier—he knew he was getting them long before tonight.

“Your mother an Olympic champion in basketball; your father a professional soccer star—who gave you your goal-scoring touch?” Maclean asks.

The question’s a bit odd, but Sasha rolls with it. “Both.” He gets some laughter, but it’s true enough.

“Both were prolific scorers? They both taught you how to win?”

“Yep. With my mom, she win everything. My dad—” he shrugs and plays it up, “win me, I think.” The comment gets more laughs, and a touch to his back from Simpson.

“We all know how much you love scoring goals and winning games, but maybe tell us what it meant for you—82nd game of the year for you to finally clinch that playoff berth for the Washington Capitals,” Simpson says.

Sasha itches his nose. “Well, uh, it was great year for me and my team and, uh, it was hard year, but it was fun.” Maybe that’s an understatement. But it had been a fun year and a hard year both. But answering also means Sasha can shake out his hands and sink back into his seat once more.

Sasha doesn’t pay much attention to the next few awards as they’re announced. He does, however, sit up straighter in his seat when the Calder nominees appear onscreen for their highlight reels. Beside him, Nicky’s back is ramrod straight. Sasha can see his parents alternatively watch the stage and the two of them.

Nicky’s name isn’t called. Sasha watches his jaw clench and his hands ball into fists for the briefest moment. And then Nicky’s face smooths into eerie blankness as he claps for the little blond rookie from Chicago.

Sasha doesn’t clap.

Sasha’s still angry about the Calder when Bob Gainey steps out to announce the Hart trophy. It takes a while to sink in that he’s won, and he’s onstage by the time he realizes he’s stood up. “You know, it’s um … it’s all about my team and my coach, my GM, my owner, and … you know, it’s all about my team.”

He swallows and looks over at his family.  “They give me a lot. My coach give me lots of ice time. My center, Nicklas Backstrom, give me great pass and I score big goals.” Nicky meets Sasha’s eyes and gives him a tiny smile. “I’m very happy, and … thank you, Capitals. Thank you, fans. Thank you guys. I love you, bye.”

 

Sasha’s named to the All-Star team. He receives the Kharlamov award for the third year in a row. He has a gold medal in his dresser drawer and pages of newspaper clippings singing his praises.

Nicky has none of that.

Nicky would clean out billionaires at poker, Sasha thinks. He shows no sign of disappointment; answers what little press comes his way with all the right things. By the end of the night, Sasha barely recognizes his husband beneath that terrifyingly blank mask.

Sasha’s parents bid them goodnight, and retreat to their hotel room across the hall. Sasha trails behind Nicky, tugging his tie loose as he shuts the door behind him. He’s worked the knot loose and is shrugging off his suit jacket when he finally looks back up.

Nicky’s standing at the end of the bed, balled fists resting atop the coverlet. His head bowed, shoulders bunched up around his ears. He’s still fully dressed in his formalwear, and there are tears tracing their way down his cheeks. But more than the realization that Nicky is _crying_ is the realization that Sasha has absolutely no idea how to handle it—that Nicky has _never_ let anyone on the team see him cry.

And that, more than anything, _guts_ Sasha.

Sasha … doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know if his offer of comfort would be welcome. But … it’s _Nicky_. He can’t help but step up closer, rest a hand on Nicky’s back. Nicky doesn’t lean back into the touch, but he doesn’t flinch away, either. Just lets out angry, disappointed tears and allows Sasha to offer what little comfort he can.

They don’t talk that night.

 

Or the next morning.

Nicky silently eats his eggs and steadfastly ignores the looks Sasha’s parents exchange over their breakfast plates. Sasha squirms uncomfortably. If he gets the chance to explain, he’s sure they’ll understand. But he doesn’t get the chance to explain before they have to leave for the airport, and then they’re in public again. In Toronto, where Sasha (and Nicky, to a lesser degree) have a good chance of being recognized and/or mobbed. Especially after Sasha’s performance last night.

So Sasha doesn’t have an opportunity to pull his parents aside and explain why Nicky’s quieter than normal. Not that they’d know, since Nicky’s practically been a ghost in the background this entire time.

Nicky fades into the crowd when Sasha’s awarded the key to the city—Sasha doesn’t actually notice, too distracted by the prospect of being “mayor” for a day. It’s not every day he gets the key to the city; he can’t wait until he and Nicky bring the Cup to Washington.

Sasha soaks up the love from the fans, from the city. Playoffs ended earlier than he’d liked, admittedly, but the Capitals had made playoffs, and they’re going to win it all someday soon. He just knows it. Knows it like he knows—

He can’t see Nicky anywhere.

 

Sasha gets home late that night, shirt soaked through after hitting up the clubs. Thankfully, his parents are nowhere to be seen. He probably shouldn’t have hit up that last club, and frankly he’s lucky his mother took the Key with her after the ceremony because Sasha lost his hat somewhere between clubs three and five, and has no idea where he picked up a second set of keys.

He also might be a little drunk.

The keys don’t look like his. The little pink bear keychain is cute, though, and Sasha pokes its nose. The bear, of course, does nothing in return. He feels bad and pets its tiny head in apology. “Извините, маленький медведь.”

He abandons both sets of keys on the kitchen counter and makes his unsteady way to the second floor. The door to his parents’ room is shut; so is the door to his and Nicky’s room. Sasha blinks at it, and turns into the sparsely decorated spare room he usually saves for Misha’s visits. Misha’s at his own apartment, though, so the bed is empty.

Sasha doesn’t remember falling asleep.

 

He does regret the last club when he wakes up to light streaming in and what seems like the percussion section of the Moscow Symphony Orchestra playing in his head. At least he isn’t nauseated. Sasha sits up and immediately changes his mind on that; he’s definitely going to puke.

He makes it to the hall bathroom before losing his lunch, supper, and what feels like the entire lining of his stomach. So much for Russians never getting hangovers, he thinks sourly. He runs his tongue around his teeth and grimaces.

Nicky’s still asleep when Sasha pokes his head through into their bedroom. Or at the very least, the Nicky-sized lump in the middle of their bed doesn’t stir when Sasha picks his way through the mess on the floor to get to the bathroom. He’s in the middle of brushing his teeth when he hears the sheets rustle and the soft pad of footsteps on wood floors.

“So you did come home,” Nicky says.

Nicky’s hair is a riotous mess; Sasha wants to run his hands through it. Curls stick up wildly on one side, and are smushed completely flat where Nicky’s slept on the other. His eyes are narrowed and wary, with none of the usual morning bleariness present.

Sasha turns to spit foam into the sink. He rinses his toothbrush and fills up the water cup, chugging most of the rest after rinsing. He wipes his mouth; he really should probably shave, too. “I come home last night, after you ditch me at key ceremony.”

“I think I’d remember you coming home with me,” Nicky snaps. “You were too busy living it up to even _look_ for me. I had to entertain _your_ parents all night. _I don’t speak Russian_. And they _barely_ have six words of English.”

Sasha winces. He’d forgotten.

“I’m surprised you _did_ come home. I would think you’d spend the week getting drunk or high and hooking up with girls who want to sleep with a celebrity.” Sasha backs up, pinned between the counter and Nicky’s ire.

“I—”

“Live it up, _Ovi._ ” That hurts more than it should. Sasha’s come to like the way his name falls from Nicky’s lips. “You’re big hero now. Rock star. Everyone wants to be you. You have … everything you could want.”

“Not Stanley Cup.” Sasha wants to kick himself the minute he says it. His head pounds, but he keeps his eyes on Nicky.

“No.” Something flickers over Nicky’s face in that moment that Sasha doesn’t recognize. “But you have everything else.”


	9. June 2008 - Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters might start slowing down, but I'm still writing. Thanks for staying with me so far.

Nicky leaves Sasha standing in the bathroom after that enigmatic statement. If Sasha listens hard, he can hear Nicky moving around in the bedroom; can hear dresser drawers open and shut, and the faint creak of hangers shifting in the closet. Sasha finishes brushing his teeth and is considering a shower when Nicky leaves their room.

The hot water’s nice, washing away the worst of the headache. Sasha tips his head back into the spray and just lets the water fall for long moments. _Fuck_. If the look on Nicky’s face hadn’t been enough of an indication that he’s somehow fucked up _again_ , the guilt settling low in his gut is confirmation.

Sasha’s put on pants and is toweling his hair dry when Nicky steps back into their bedroom and shuts the door behind him. Sasha flat-out freezes.

Nicky extends his closed hand, palm downward, and lets something dangle into the open air. Sasha barely gets a glimpse before he has to dodge the keys suddenly thrown at his face. Nicky’s aim is deadly even off the ice. He recognizes the little pink bear seconds too late.

“Where is she?” Nicky _snarls_. “Your girl of the night? Your _souvenir_?”

Sasha’s frozen in the middle of their bedroom, trying to process this turn of events.

“I can deal with being overlooked and underappreciated, but I thought you wanted to make this _marriage_ work!” He fairly spits out the words, still in an angry whisper. “ _You don’t cheat on your spouse, Ovechkin._  And you don’t bring your—your _puck bunnies_ to _our_ home. I can’t believe you. Just—”

Nicky’s wordless with fury, green eyes blazing. Sasha’s simultaneously terrified and turned on. He’s a hockey player; it’s a perfectly normal response to the adrenaline rush. He doesn’t have time to refute Nicky’s accusations before Nicky’s gone, leaving Sasha standing barefooted beside their bed.

“I didn’t cheat,” he says to open air. The pink bear stares up at him from the floor accusingly.

Sasha drops his towel to the floor and bolts out of the bedroom. He skids down the hallway and takes the stairs two at a time, catching up to Nicky just as Nicky’s pulling his keys out of the bowl on the kitchen counter. Sasha skirts the counter and blocks the door. Nicky shoves at his shoulder. “Get out of my way.”

“No.” Sasha’s breathing hard, but— “You think I cheat? You see keys, not my keys, and you think I cheat? You think I do that to someone I—to _you?_ ”

Nicky’s eyes narrow. “You think I’m blind? You’re with different girl every night before we ‘get married.’ You have girls crawling over every time team goes _anywhere_ , and you flirt back! You _never been with a man before_ , and I’m supposed to think you—”

“That’s before,” Sasha breaks in. “I marry you. I mean it.”

“What do you even _want_ from me, Ovechkin? You say you want a real marriage, and then you go ahead and sleep with the first girl who falls into your lap? I can’t—I _won’t_ be yanked on your chain.” The English phrase falls awkwardly out of Nicky’s mouth, and it takes Sasha a moment to translate it. Nicky’s moved into Sasha’s space now, keys forgotten on the counter. Sometimes Sasha forgets Nicky’s not actually all that much smaller than him; it’s hard to forget that when they’re standing nearly nose-to-nose.

“I mean it, when I say ‘love and honor, ‘til death do part.’”

Nicky scowls. “Yeah, you’re doing a great job of that. I thought you meant it when you asked if we could make it work. I thought you—” Nicky breaks off and sucks in a breath. “I was wrong. _I wish I’d never said yes_.”

“I didn’t cheat on you! I don’t _cheat!_ I go to club, get drunk, get car home to you. I don’t _know_ who keys are. I find in pocket, put on table, go sleep in guest room so not wake you up!”

Nicky’s glare pins Sasha in place. “You expect me to believe you what, _want me?_  That you haven’t had sex since you married me? Our marriage isn’t even real. It’s not like you’re getting it from _me_.”

“Yes! Am lonely, but I make promise to you when we get married. And—” Sasha vaguely aware that he’ll probably regret this conversation, but he’s just _so angry_. “You _never say_ you want me. Sleep in same bed, live in same home, but you _never_ say interest. And so I don’t ask. And after I find out about Leonsis, not gonna ask, because _you don’t want._ ”

Nicky’s watching Sasha closer now, and Sasha blows out a breath but plows on. He’s come this far. “Am sex frustrate, yes. But never cheat. Too much hurt when cheat, can’t do to someone. I say I want real marriage. I _mean when I say_.”

Nicky’s eyes are really, really green this close up. “You want me,” he says softly. “You _want_ me. In your bed.”

Sasha swallows. “Want in my life,” he admits. “Want everything you want give me.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Should we let them know how much the sound carries?”

Mikhail looks over at where his wife is sitting with her back against the headboard and raises an eyebrow. “And let Sasha know we overheard what sounds like their first real fight?”

Tatyana purses her lips. “They were due for it. I just wish we’d thought to go out for an early breakfast. I don’t think Sasha realizes he’s yelling.”

Mikhail makes a noise of agreement. “At least we can honestly say we don’t know what they’re fighting about if they do ask.”

Tatyana snorts. “English is a terrible language.” There’s a moment of silence. “I wonder if Nicklas would be interested in learning Russian,” she muses.

Mikhail shrugs. “Or maybe Sasha will learn Swedish. They have to learn to talk to each other at some point.”


	10. July 2008

Sasha wakes before his alarm goes off, blinking awake in the dim light. He stretches, internally relishing that he chose the biggest possible bed when he’d bought the house—his toes don’t even brush the footboard when he points them. He collapses back into himself with a satisfied sigh and rolls to his side.

Nicky’s still dead to the world beside him. His hair’s a messy riot of curls, and one lock flutters over his face when he breathes. Sasha reaches out and delicately tucks it away from Nicky’s face, careful not to wake his husband. _Don’t wake a sleeping dragon_ , he thinks.

His efforts are in vain when Nicky wrinkles his nose and mutters to himself, cracking one eye open to glare sleepily at Sasha. “You’re making—” his jaw cracks on a yawn, “—the bed move.”

Sasha hopes his smile comes off as innocent. From Nicky’s amused huff of laughter, it probably settled into something like deranged. Sasha scoots a little closer and settles a hand at the small of Nicky’s back, where the sheet doesn’t cover the sliver of skin between his shirt and his shorts. “Good sleep?” he asks.

Nicky rolls his shoulders and stretches, muscle rippling beneath Sasha’s palm. “Well enough. You snored like a bear all night.”

“Am Russian,” Sasha shrugs. He slides a little closer, hand slipping beneath Nicky’s shirt and up. Nicky’s skin is smooth and pale, so pale. Nicky settles on his stomach and turns his head to watch Sasha’s face.

“Petting me now? I’m not a cat.”

“You most like cat. Sneaky. Clever.” Sasha appreciates his husband’s cat-like qualities most days, even when Nicky’s at his most contrary. But Sasha also loves mornings like this, where Nicky’s content to lie there and wake up slowly while Sasha pets him.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

Sasha blinks awake, groping blindly for his phone where it’s buzzing on the nightstand. He smacks it to the floor, where it continues beeping, slightly muffled by the shirt it lands on. He leans down and manages to get the alarm silenced by the time he sits back up.

The other side of the bed is empty of a sleep-soft Nicky, of course. Sasha thunks his head back into his pillow and sighs, staring blankly at the white ceiling. The Nicky in Sasha’s dream fades away as reality sets back in. His Nicky is likely downstairs in the gym, or drinking coffee at the kitchen table. Not smiling at Sasha in their bed.

 

Sasha’s parents leave for home with promises of coming back for the season opener. Sasha can’t say he’s glad to see them go; he misses Russia with an intensity he can’t describe. But he is not quite welcome there, not yet. And so Sasha kisses his parents goodbye and drives them to the airport, as a good son does.

He doesn’t cry until he’s back in the safety of his own garage.

Nicky either doesn’t notice or decides not to comment on Sasha’s red eyes when they meet in the kitchen for lunch. He also mostly ignores the way Sasha freezes when he opens the fridge to find neatly stacked and labeled Tupperware—and _when_ did Tatyana buy those, because Sasha definitely didn’t own them before—of Sasha’s favorites.

“There’s more in the basement freezer,” Nicky says quietly. “For when you’re homesick, if I understood right.”

Sasha blinks hard and closes the fridge. He’s not actually hungry anymore. He stares at his reflection for a moment and closes his eyes. “You understand right,” he says. “Mama always take care. Make sure I have Russia even when can’t go home.”

Nicky’s sharp inhale surprises him, and Sasha half-pivots. “You can’t—Russia isn’t—but you _played for Worlds_.”

Sasha manages a shrug and hopes it conveys his own frustration. “Worlds is hockey. Is okay to play hockey for Russia. Not okay to go home and hope for … for normal. Too much confuse.”

Now Nicky looks confused. “This a hockey marriage,” Sasha tries, gesturing between them. “Is okay to be marry for hockey. Is okay to play hockey for Russia. But take husband home to Russia, is too much. Too different. Not—not accept.”

“Oh.” Nicky visibly mulls it over in his head before meeting Sasha’s eyes. The corner of his mouth twitches. “We should talk about it. Our marriage. I—I talked to Michael, and he thinks we’re really bad at talking to each other.”

Sasha doesn’t have to say that maybe Michael has a point. He can read the wry expression on Nicky’s face well enough by now. “Especially after last week,” Nicky adds with a wince.

Sasha represses a wince of his own. He’s not proud of his behavior, but having a (loud) argument in the front hall is still leagues better than the first frigid months of pure avoidance. “Probably good idea,” he agrees. “But not tell. He get big head.”

 

Sasha makes himself a cup of tea, and Nicky refills his mug, before they sit down across from each other. Sasha stares at Nicky; Nicky stares back.

“Where—” “How—”

Sasha stirs his tea to break up a particularly stubborn clump of jam. He clears his throat. “What you expect when Leonsis—” No, that’s not right. “When you think about marry, what you want in husband?”

Nicky blows out a breath and drums his fingernails against the tabletop. “I didn’t really think about it. I mean, I wanted to get married … someday. Someone who understand hockey come first, that I travel all the time. Kids, yeah. Later. I’m only 20, lots of time for kids later. When I’m not kid, too.”

“But you get me instead.”

“Yeah,” Nicky says. “I got you.” His fingers still. “I was angry, you know. I make it to the NHL and I go high in the draft, and then my owner says ‘Good job, but we might need you to marry our star so we can keep him’ before I even play a game.”

Sasha had known Nicky was angry—it’s hard to think about those early months _without_ seeing it—but … “So you stay in Sweden for season? Maybe think I pick someone else?”

“Yes. I’m 18, then.” The corner of Nicky’s mouth curls upward. He meets Sasha’s eyes. “Only people who get married at 18 have baby coming. Too young. And I didn’t know you.”

Sasha nods slowly. “And when I choose you …”

Nicky plays with his half-full coffee mug, spinning it slowly around his fingers. “When you choose me anyway, I’m more angry. I stay in Sweden for a year, and you chose me anyway. I still couldn’t say no, not with Leonsis holding my contract. And you—I didn’t know what you wanted.” Nicky’s still watching Sasha’s face. “I still don’t,” he says softly.

“You say you want a husband. A real marriage. And you promise we can make it work. And then—” Nicky waves one hand around, “—then you get caught up in your … awards and congratulations and _forget about me._ That’s not a marriage. That’s not a _relationship_. If you want this to be real, if I’m going to _try_ , then you can’t pick me up and set me down like a trophy. I’m not going to be that. I can’t. Some of the wives can deal with that, but I’m not your hockey wife. I’m your _center_.”

 _Oh_.

Sasha takes a minute to translate and process Nicky’s words, carefully. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Based on Nicky’s wide-eyed response, he hadn’t been expecting that. “What?”

“I’m sorry. You right about … get caught in award, ceremony. You right. I _did_ forget about you, about parents. And … I’m sorry.” Sasha _knows_ a simple apology won’t be enough to heal the hurt that Nicky’s been carrying, but it’s maybe a start.

“I tell you before I want real marriage. And you say you will try.” Nicky leans forward and opens his mouth, but Sasha plows onward. “And I also say I try, but I forget. That’s my fault. I do better. I try _harder_ to be good husband—good winger—” Sasha chances a grin in Nicky’s direction. “Marriage is partners. You say you don’t know me. Is true. Is also true I don’t know you. Maybe we start there.”

“You did promise me a date,” Nicky says slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps it’s a bit out of character, but I don’t find it unrealistic for a 22-year-old to miss his home country and his mother. And Ovechkin is very close to his mother, if all the articles I’ve pored over are to be believed.


	11. August 2008 - Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologize for how long it has taken me to post this chapter. Between real-life happenings and writer's block ... it's been difficult to get back to this fic. Rest assured, though, it has not been forgotten.

The Nationals win the game the two of them go see, sending the Reds back to Cincinnati with their tail between their legs. Sasha honestly doesn’t pay much attention to baseball; he doesn’t know all of the rules, and the English terms aren’t familiar at all. But he buys Nicky a Nationals cap and a hot dog, both of which go over well, and spends most of the fourth inning staring at Nicky’s face instead of the field.

They only get recognized a few times, and only two children—teenagers, really—are bold enough to approach for an autograph. Sasha obliges, scribbling his signature on the Nationals jersey. Nicky’s signature looks good next to his, Sasha decides.

When they get home that night, Nicky’s cheeks are dusted with sunburn. He’s still wearing the baseball cap, the ends of his hair curling out from under it. It’s entirely possible Sasha’s staring again.

He misses the first few words, but tunes in in time to catch “—go out tomorrow, Alex?”

Nicky’s never asked permission to go out before, so Sasha’s confused. “What?”

“I thought it’d be something to do. Together. ” Nicky explains.

Oh. “Yes,” Sasha hurriedly replies. “We can do together.” He hadn’t caught the first part of Nicky’s sentence, so he has no idea _where_ they’re going, but time spent with Nicky is better than time spent without.

 

Where they’re going is apparently on a tour of Washington’s tourist places, Sasha discovers. Neither of them have seen much of the United States’ capital city, despite living there for a year (or three, in Sasha’s case).

Nicky wakes Sasha up at an entirely uncalled-for hour of the morning, and bullies him into jeans and a t-shirt, vetoing Sasha’s preferred sweats with narrowed eyes. Sasha doesn’t fight him on it, not willing to risk the return of Nicky’s typical hatred of mornings.

Nicky drives, for once, and Sasha only vaguely pays attention to the route, choosing instead to switch his attention between fiddling with his wedding ring and staring at Nicky’s concentration face.™ So when Nicky pulls into a parking spot at the National Zoo, Sasha’s taken by surprise. Nicky just hands Sasha a pair of sunglasses and raises an eyebrow when Sasha takes his time getting out of the car.

“We go see animals, Nicky?” Sasha asks.

“There’s pandas.” Nicky’s response is dry and he shrugs. “I’ve never seen those before.”

And, well, Sasha hasn’t either. He can get behind pandas. As they go through the gates, Sasha tugs his cap lower over his face. It’s probably an exercise in futility, but Sasha can always hope not to be recognized. The Caps aren’t as big as he hopes to make them. Not yet.

The panda exhibit isn’t that far from the gate, according to the map Nicky snagged. But they don’t get very far before Sasha catches a glimpse of wide-set dark eyes amid the plants and promptly gets distracted.

“Nicky, look!” His excited hiss startles the horned animal, but it doesn’t flee, probably used to the antic of small children. Nicky, thankfully, turns and follows Sasha’s pointing finger. The deer-creature snorts and shakes its head. It eyes them warily, but doesn’t bound away. Nicky exhales. “Interesting horns,” he says quietly.

Sasha find the information plaque easily enough. “Is kudu.” And apparently a threatened species. The kudu has decided the two of them aren’t a threat, and has returned to grazing. Nicky tilts his head in question and Sasha shrugs. “Pandas now?”

The panda exhibit is crowded with families. There are small children underfoot everywhere. Sasha nearly trips over a stroller twice trying to squeeze through the crowds. Nicky eels his way behind and around parents and children, graceful off the ice in a way that Sasha envies.

They manage to carve out a tiny space on the overlook, though. The pandas are cute, and much bigger than Sasha had expected. They seem happy to sit in the sunlight and eat, although every so often one will wander around. One of them meanders just below Sasha and Nicky, and Nicky presses close to the barrier to watch it amble by.

Sasha laughs loudly when the other panda tries to climb onto one of the rocks in the exhibit and fails spectacularly, rolling down the slight hill when its grip slips. The panda sits for a moment at the bottom, and then promptly tries again. And fails again.

Nicky absently shushes Sasha, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Beside them, a little girl stares at Sasha, and then watches the panda rolling down the hill before breaking into giggles. “Mommy, it can’t figure out how to climb the rock!”

Sasha startles when Nicky’s fingers close around his forearm and tug, his laughter cutting out. “Let kids see the pandas,” Nicky says, and tows Sasha out of the way. Sasha doesn’t resist, although he sneaks a glance back to see the panda finally get the hang of the climb and scramble onto the rock to sunbathe.

Go, panda.

Nicky’s frowning at the map once they step outside the panda exhibit, so Sasha nudges him lightly and just starts walking. Sasha allows himself a smug smile when he hears Nicky huff and jog to catch up. They meander down the path, stopping every so often for a glimpse of an animal or to puzzle out the English explanations.

They pause for a moment to watch the морской львы play in their pool, sunning themselves on the rocks. Sasha watches as one splashes another, instigating what looks like a game of tag. Nicky snorts. “That one is you,” he says.

“Never,” Sasha responds, mock-offended. “I make much bigger splash,” he adds. He’s rewarded with one of Nicky’s rare smiles, and a warm glow settles in his belly.

They lean against the fence and watch the animals play and swim in the cool water, the sun a pleasant warmth instead of blazing hot for once. Eventually Nicky pushes himself upright again. “Tigers?” he asks.

Sasha agrees without hesitation.

 

They pick up takeaway on the way home, neither of them in the mood to cook after spending all day outside in the heat. Nicky tosses his keys in the key bowl and sets the bag of food on the counter. He turns around and smiles again at Sasha, and Sasha gives in to the urge to kiss him.

Nicky’s lips are soft and a little wet, and frozen in a small ‘o’ of surprise. Sasha’s fingers slide through golden curls—slightly flattened by Nicky’s cap—and he gets a split second to relish the warmth of Nicky’s chest pressed to his before Sasha realizes what he’s just done and wrenches himself away.

“I—”

Nicky stares at him, eyes wide. One of Nicky’s hands is raised, palm facing Sasha as if to push him away. The other is still holding his cap—the cap Sasha bought for him just yesterday. Nicky swallows, and Sasha’s eyes flick to the bob of his Adam’s apple. _Frightened,_ Sasha thinks. Oh, _fuck._

Sasha takes a step backwards. A second step. A third. Nicky hasn’t moved, frozen to stillness in the middle of their kitchen. Sasha’s choking on the apologies that want to burst forth, but his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Sasha turns on his heel and bolts out the door.

 

A few blocks away, Sasha realizes he’s severely miscalculated. Since Nicky drove, Sasha’s keys are still back in the house. He has his phone, but its battery is nearly gone. And Sanya is still home in Russia; Greenie back in Canada for the summer.

He calls Michael Nylander.

When Michael drives up, parks the car, and practically runs over to where Sasha’s sitting on the curb, visibly checking him over for injuries, Sasha realizes he probably sounded frantic on the phone. “I fine, I fine, Nyles,” Sasha says. And he is … physically.

Michael pauses and just _looks_ at Sasha. Sasha feels his cheeks heat with shame and looks away. “I maybe scare Nicky,” he admits.

Michael lowers himself to take a seat next to Sasha. Their feet stretch out into the street, Sasha’s brightly colored sneakers against Michael’s sandals. “Looks like you scared yourself, too. Talk to me, kid.”

Sasha just lets the whole story fall out—how he fucked up, and how things were getting better, and how _wonderful_ today had been, and—

“So, if I got this right …” Michael says, “you two went on a date to the zoo and it was good. Nicke had a good time, and you were happy, and you kissed him?”

Sasha nods.

“And … you think he didn’t want it?”

“He didn’t kiss back! We _never_ talk about if—if—” Sasha breaks off, frustrated. _Fucking English._

Michael sighs and mutters something in Swedish. Sasha jumps when Michael scruffs his hair. “And so you ran away after kissing your husband.”

Sasha’s embarrassment rushes back full-force. Put like that … “I fuck it up,” he sighs.

“Yeah, you did, kid,” Michael says, and Sasha curls into himself. “But this one’s an easy fix.”

Sasha turns his head to look at Michael. The older man’s smile is kind. “You go home, you say you’re sorry for running, and ask if you can try again.”

 

Michael bullies Sasha into his car and drives him home, despite it literally being four blocks. He also parks his car in the driveway and waits as Sasha rings the doorbell.

It takes Nicky a few minutes to open the door, and Sasha shifts from foot to foot, guilt rising to his throat. When Nicky does open the door, Sasha resists the urge to drop his gaze and stare at the ground. Instead, he offers, “I am sorry, Nicky, for kissing you without ask, and also for run away. Please forgive?”

Nicky opens his mouth, pauses, and then turns slightly to stare at Michael’s car, still in the driveway. Michael honks twice and turns over the engine, backing out into the street. Nicky does a tiny shake of his head, closes his mouth, and opens the door wide enough to let Sasha slink inside.

The door closes behind Nicky with a quiet ‘click.’ Sasha lets out a long, slow breath before looking back at his husband. Nicky’s arms are crossed over his chest, shoulders hunched in just the smallest bit. He worries at his lip as he watches Sasha. His words are measured. “You’re sorry for not asking, and for running away, but not for kissing?”

Sasha nods.

“Why did you kiss me?”

Sasha gapes at Nicky. He probably looks dumb, but … Sasha’s admitted before how he wants everything Nicky will give him. Can Nicky not see how much Sasha wants him? How often Sasha wakes up just barely a handspan away from spooning Nicky as they sleep; how Sasha gravitates to Nicky with every step he takes; how often Sasha loses his train of thought because he’s distracted by the way Nicky purses his lips, or the shine of his hair, or the sheer attractiveness of his morning murder-face … okay, that last one might just be a Sasha thing.

“Because … I want … to?” Sasha makes it a question without intending to, but Nicky doesn’t seem to notice his incredulousness.

“So you’ve thought about this, then. Kissing me.” Nicky’s in Sasha’s space, backing Sasha into the hallway wall. Sasha swallows, but doesn’t miss the way Nicky’s eyes flick to Sasha’s lips. “But you haven’t done anything. Until today. Why?”

Sasha … Sasha doesn’t have an answer for that. He shakes his head slowly, keeping his eyes on Nicky’s face. Nicky doesn’t seem to have a problem with Sasha’s silence, at least. They’re only a handful of centimeters from pressing chest-to-chest. Sasha has a flash of memory, back to their wedding night. Nicky’s done this before—pushed into another man’s space, shared kisses and more that Sasha’s only imagined.

Nicky’s the one to initiate the kiss this time, calloused palm sliding against Sasha’s skin to cup the nape of his neck and gently tip his head down those last few centimeters. Sasha’s back is against the wall, Nicky a solid wall of warmth now against him chest to hip.

Sasha closes his eyes, lets himself just feel. Kissing Nicky is _nothing_ like kissing Yulia or Natalia. For one thing, it’s impossible for Sasha to ignore he’s kissing a man. Nicky’s stubble is near non-existent, but his body has none of the soft curves Sasha is used to, especially evident in how he’s pinning Sasha against the wall. And Nicky’s lips are as chapped as Sasha’s own, a small reminder of how they spend their days.

Nicky is unquestionably in charge of the kiss, directing Sasha where he wants. Nicky’s other hand tucks itself at the small of Sasha’s back; Sasha’s lost track of his own hands, preoccupied with the way Nicky’s thigh is tucked between his own. Nicky has no such problem, tangling his fingers in Sasha’s hair. Sasha lets Nicky angle him the way he wants; leans eagerly into Nicky’s mouth.

Sasha has to pull away to breathe, though. “Not—Not ready for—” fuck, what’s the word in English? “Not all way,” he manages. Sasha’s cheeks heat, and he feels like a virgin on her wedding night. In a way, he is, although it’s been months since their wedding night. To his credit, Nicky just nods once, and his hands stay safely above Sasha’s waist. That’s not to say they stay still though, as they slide beneath Sasha’s t-shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now have a Tumblr. Come visit me at ficcinghell.


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